


Meaningless

by Mtraverandujar



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24716149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mtraverandujar/pseuds/Mtraverandujar
Summary: I never left.
Relationships: William Adama/Laura Roslin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Meaningless

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Laura and Bill, I just write down what they whisper to me.
> 
> This work is for Mary and Eddie, even if they will never know. It is about time I dedicate one of my Spaceparents fics to them. For giving me the perfection that Laura and Bill are, and for sparking the writing flame in me which had been buried for years. I owe all of my writing (not just my fics) to them.

Bill spins the wheel and opens the hatch as silently as he can. He has no idea how long he has been wandering around on the corridors like a lost soul. His senses are awakened by the touch of the cold metal; he feels as if he is returning from a deep, long slumber. If anyone were to ask him right this moment, he would not be able to report the tiniest detail about what he has seen, who he has crossed, where he has been exactly.

He cannot even establish the sequence of his own train of thought. His mind has been wandering as much as his feet, resisting any logical, consistent sequence. Rather, it was sensations. When he left his quarters before, resoundingly pulling the hatch behind him, it was all about dissipating the fog, putting off the fire, burning out his rage with movement. Or maybe, it was just about running away. From her, from himself. From the images she could conjure up, the truths she could make him see. Running away before he lost it, running away to try and hold himself together. Or rather, to sink deeper and deeper in his own misery making sure she was not around to disturb his free fall, to pierce him with her curve balls that had on his soul the same effect as a mirror placed in front of his nose.

It was not just the booze. If it were just the booze, its effect would have faded away by now; however, his mind is still obfuscated. At least, his rage has dissipated enough for him to feel capable of coming back. He no longer is at risk of restarting their fight as soon as he crosses the hatch. He is still far from having a sharp mind, but the fire is no longer burning. He has been away long enough to presume she must have calmed down, too; long enough to hope her temper has eased off. She expects her to be somber still, and she sure as hell must not have changed her mind at all. But it will be enough if she gives herself, and him, a truce.

She had her own reasons to be on edge. And on edge, she was. Cursed be the Gods for their frakked-up circumstances their impossible responsibilities, their overwhelming burden; the constant demands that stopped them from behaving freely, that forced them to disregard their feelings. Feelings that filtered through the cracks at every chance, nevertheless. He and Laura were just human, after all.

And then, her cancer.

Regret sends a pang to his chest. He remembers Laura's expression as he stormed out of his quarters. From the corner of his eye, he could see she was weeping. It had not stopped him from leaving. He could not turn around. His ire, his frustration, his own vulnerability, which she had exposed as easily as she would have uncorked a bottle of ambrosia… His need to remove himself from the scene had outweighed any other consideration. It had outweighed his deep wish to be there for her, to comfort her, to be by her side. It had been stronger than his love for her. _Not always_ , he muses. _Just in that one second._

Bill takes two steps into the room; the rug swallows their sound. He shuts the hatch behind him without turning around, leaning back on it until he hears it snap closed. He stays there, looking into his own quarters as if he were there for the first time. As if he were discovering them only now. As if the lamps, the couch, the bulkheads, everything around kept the secret of what they had heard and seen before; as if they all were accusatory witnesses upon his return.

His desk is still covered with papers and reports. All the documents she was reviewing, or trying to, when he disappeared are still spread over the entire wooden surface. Laura must not have finished her work. She must not have had it in her to keep working after he left. His leaving probably has only made her feel worse. Lonely. Lonelier than ever before, her trust and affection fractured, him willingly and stubbornly blind to the truth she needs him to acknowledge. Lonelier than ever, in his quarters, of all places. This is exactly what he had been trying to avoid when he convinced her to move in with him during her treatments, with the secret hope that she would stay once they were over. Guilt sends a pang to his chest. Then he feels another bite: one that is much more disturbing, much more daunting. Guilt, after all, is his old companion: he has learned how to go about it, how to tolerate it and still function.

But what will he do if she has left?

He startles, his heart beats faster. His quarters are too quiet. Way too quiet. His gaze wanders around, anxiety spreading from his gut to his chest. His tumbler is right where he left it: empty and dirty on the drink cupboard. Next to it, the bottle lies open. The few dim lights on are the same that were already on before. The entire picture seems suspiciously identical, as if nobody touched a single object in the scene he abandoned earlier. It looks as if she has decided to leave right after him. Where could she have gone? What if she has felt sick? After all, she woke up to Starbuck pointing a gun to her just hours ago; she had to shoot her, defending her own life. She has cancer, the treatments are taking their toll no matter how stoic her resolve is, no matter how firmly she refuses to complain. And she was crying, due to his words, when he left.

_But I told her to stay. I said she could stay in the room._

Anguish makes his throat tight. She cannot leave. Laura cannot leave.

The fog lifts off his brain and soul like swept away by a sudden fresh breeze. His senses sharpen and he focuses, trying to figure out what could have happened, where he can possibly find her. Sick with worry, he takes a few determined strides into the room, walks in circles, searching for clues, trying to think. He comes over to the table and lays a hand on it as he keeps looking around.

Something soft tangles around his fingertips. It is not wood, it is not paper. He looks down. What he sees kicks the air out of his lungs.

A lock of hair.

A lock of that wonderful, auburn hair of hers. That hair that mesmerizes him since who knows know how long; for sure, it was much earlier than he is ready to admit. That hair he dreams of sinking his fingers in, but that he has barely brushed so far, just by chance, when laying his hand on her back: as they walked together down the corridors, as he invited her to precede him into a room, when he asked her to dance on Colonial Day (how long has it been, anyway?). Also, when he dared to stroke her cheek as she lay unconscious and at the brink of death in sickbay. He has not dared to touch it, not even now that she is living with him, turning his quarters into a home with her sole presence. He has never dared to get so far. Not even now that they share moments of intimacy on a daily basis, that both of them allow themselves to be more explicit about their mutual feelings; not even now he dares to initiate the gesture of stroking those thick, soft waves.

This is why Laura was crying as he stormed out of the room, oblivious to her pain. Her sickness had just confronted her in a terrifying way and he just left her there. Alone.

His gaze notices a reassuring sign: Laura's shoes are still perfectly aligned on the floor, by the couch, just where she left them when she came in. Could Laura have left his quarters leaving her shoes behind? Was she _that_ mad with him? He cannot help but wonder. It seems unlikely. While this is not the only pair of shoes she keeps in his quarters since she moved in, those are the ones she has been wearing the entire day. Bill cannot think of a reason why she would have wasted any time choosing a different pair before leaving, being in such poor emotional state.

She has not left. She is still here.

This realization fills him with relief as much as uneasiness. If Laura is still there, he must find a way to confront her. Honestly, he has no clue what to say. He just knows what he feels. Telling her exactly that would probably be the best option, but expressing exactly what he feels is something he is not quite used to, or good at.

And yet…

And yet, Bill wants to keep her by his side. He is not quite sure there is another way.

The room is silent, but Laura is still there. She does not seem to have heard him come back. Or maybe she has. Maybe she has heard him but is not in the mood to speak to him. Carefully, Bill walks over to the private part of his quarters where he knows, imagines, he is going to find her. His heart skips a beat when he looks in.

There she is. He can make out her lying form on his rack. She is facing the bulkhead, her back turned to him. Her bare feet poke out under the edge of the blanket she has spread over her body.

Bill smiles. Laura has had felt comfortable enough to appropriate his bed even after their fight, even after his leaving. She has not seen in their fight a reason to leave this place, and this can only mean one thing: she feels she has as much of a right to stay as he does. Instead of requesting guest quarters or retreating to Colonial One, she has sought refuge in a corner of his quarters. Actually, in the place that feels more like him: his bed, that rack she has been using for days now. It is almost as if this already feels like home to her, too. As if she had not even considered the notion that she could run much farther away, if she liked. Of course, she would refuse, proud and stubborn, if anyone tried to make her admit it. Maybe she has not even done it consciously. Anyway, in the middle of their fight, he himself has made it clear that she could stay. She seems to have taken his words at face value.

There she is. Lying on his rack, covered by his blanket, awaiting his return.

Bill ventures a few steps in her direction, as silent as he can manage to be. Once he is close enough, he stops. He listens to her quiet breathing, watches her in silence: her auburn hair tangled and messy and spread across his pillow, her shoulder that moves up and down every time she breathes in and out; the curve of her hip, her feet pressed tight together as if they were trying to help each other fight the cold. Bill's heart clenches. He feels moisture under his lids. He swallows hard.

He will wait. He will stay awake until she wakes up. He will do whatever it takes to keep sleep from claiming him, to be vigilant and focused until Laura opens her eyes, until she rolls over to find him there. He will explain. He will speak to her in a way so radically different from how he spoke before. He wants to do it before she gets a chance to get up and starts doing who knows what, or decides to go somewhere else, still carrying inside her the burden of the pain he has inflicted on her, and leaving him drowning in regret.

He will grab a chair and come back to her. He will sit by his rack and wait.

He turns around slowly and takes one step back.

'Bill.'

He stops cold. Suddenly, he cannot tell if he woke her up or if she has been awake all along. He has been careful not to make any sound; the thick rug muffles his heavy strides. Whatever it is, she has heard him. Or she has sensed his presence. Or maybe, she guessed he was moving backwards and wanted to stop his retreat.

Bill turns to her. She has not moved. Her back is still to him, her position exactly the same. Has he really heard her call him, or is his imagination playing tricks on him?

As if she could read his mind, not even needing to turn to look at him, she repeats:

'Bill.'

Her voice is hoarse, broken. Bill wants to think it is the slumber and not the pain that makes it sound this thick.

'I'm here, Laura.'

_I'm here. I'm back. I never really left. I'm still here, I always will be._

She rolls over, slowly. She shifts and stays lying on her side, but now, facing him. The blanket slides down her body and falls to the floor. Laura does not move, does not make the smallest attempt to pick it up. She leans her head against the pillow and stays still, watching him in silence. Her eyes are puffy; traces of dry tears are noticeable on her cheeks. She purses her lips, and he almost fears the moment she will say something. Her skirt is wrinkled and twisted above her knees, around her thighs. Her blouse covers her hips: she must have freed it from the waist of her skirt before lying down to be more comfortable.

Even like this, drained and broken, she is so beautiful that he holds his breath.

On his rack, but still dressed up. The meaning does not escape him.

The military man, the man of action that lies within him, feels the need to react somehow. He comes over slowly. Laura shifts back, making enough room for him to sit on the mattress. She realizes her mistake when he squats down to pick up the blanket off the floor. A shadow descends over her green eyes. Bill notices it, he can tell she is berating herself for her childish weakness, for her vulnerability; for letting her hope and her need show so stupidly. He decides to take advantage of her silent invitation. He does not want to disappoint her, ever again. He will not miss his opportunity. Gently, he sits down on the edge of the mattress and spreads the blanket over her body. Then, he withdraws his hands, wraps them together on his lap, and waits. He is limiting the contact to the strictly necessary, at least until Laura gives him a hint on how to proceed. She just looks at him. Her expression is unreadable. Bill forces himself to hold her gaze. Maybe she can read in his eyes all those things he is so desperately trying to find the way to express.

After a few long seconds, Laura shifts slowly and sits up with a fatigued sigh. As she does, the blanket slides down her body yet again and pools at her waist, ruffled and messy. She does not even look down. She folds her legs, props herself up on her arms and pushes her body back on the mattress, searching for a better position. She leans back on the bulkhead and stays still. She looks at him again. Now, her face is right in front of him. She is watching him closely. As equals.

It would have been easier to read reproach in those eyes. It would have been easier to see in them rage, resentment, bitterness: any of those things that can be worked around starting with _I'm sorry_. He is sorry. He truly is. It would have been a safe starting point.

It is nothing like it. Her crying and her anger both extinguished, in the middle of her abandon and her loneliness, it is not an apology she is expecting. She already knows he regrets it. She already knows they are a match in shrewdness, harshness, stubbornness. She has heard herself earlier; she must know she has crossed lines, too. It is unlike her to retract her own words or to belie her own behavior in order to elude the responsibility for the damage it causes. Right now, she is past that point. She grants him the same grace: she considers him past it, too.

Laura needs to move on to the next stage. It is a question that Bill sees in her eyes. A request for explanation, for confirmation.

He startles when he feels her touch. Laura has outstretched her arm and laid her palm on his knuckles gently. Her fingers are light and cold, but resolute as they brush his skin. They trust. They reestablish a lost connection. Bill shudders. Never averting his eyes from hers, he turns his palm up and wraps Laura's hand in his. His thumb strokes her skin as he plunges into her green pools, seeking a reaction, a different sparkle, a sign that she understands. A hint that he is giving her the answer she needs.

A sign that he has understood her question.

But she just watches him. Several minutes have passed, and Laura remains silent. His name is the only word she has uttered. His name, to make it clear that she is awake, that she has noticed his presence. To keep him from leaving. His name, twice. Then, silence. Bill can read her looks: he has been watching her for years, plunging into her orbs, studying their sparkles, interpreting their nuances. But this time, he would prefer words. To bridge the abyss they have opened between them, he would feel safer with words.

Suddenly, he figures it out. Intuition reveals him the exact gesture that will grant him access to Laura again. He sees it so clearly now, with such lucidity. Laura is waiting for something, but maybe not even she knows what exactly. Maybe she does not quite know she expects _this_. But he knows. His will dictates his actions now and he obeys, and suddenly, he is sure it has to be right now. He is an expert strategist: when everything is more fragile is, precisely, the best moment to dare. To change the rules. To offer something else. To prove he has understood what is going on, to show that he is here for it, that he is not going anywhere. Still holding Laura's hand, he reaches out with his free hand and tangles his fingers in her hair. She bites her lower lip. Her neck and shoulders clench almost imperceptibly. Bill is not quite sure how to interpret that tension. He does not know if she too longs for that touch, or quite the opposite. He stays still, but does not pull back his hand. After a second, he risks moving it again, slowly, stroking that hair just like he has dreamed so many times, brushing the soft skin of the nape of her neck. He swallows the lump that forms in his throat when a few threads fall loose at the brush of his palm. He breathes in deeply, pushes the lump down, buries it inside his chest.

It is Laura, sharp as always, who tries to mention it. Because, the moment Bill has touched her, she has known exactly what would happen next. She has realized he would find out her terrible secret, the one that sends a cold fear up her spine. That secret that made her more vulnerable than ever, precisely when she could ask for help, because he was gone. Precisely when she could not lean on him: the breach opened by their cruel remarks robbed her of that comfort, stopped her from asking him to stay. She always tries to do everything by herself: now that she does not have another option, she finds herself regretting it. She feels exposed in her need, in her fragility. He understands all this. He sees it so clearly: this is the only reason she has gone tense when he has touched her.

'Bill…'

Just his name, a third time. It is almost a plea; a weak sound, thick with uncertainty, loaded with a burden impossible to explain.

'I know.' He barely recognizes his own voice. 'I know. I've seen it on the desk.'

He leaves his hand resting in the crook of her neck. His thumb strokes her jaw. Moisture invades Laura's eyes and Bill feels his own sight go blurry. It is as if his eyes, like his entire being, did not exist but as a faithful reflection of her. He leans towards her. Her face contracts in pain: her walls are down. She closes her eyes a second before Bill's lips press a lingering kiss to her forehead.

This is it. It is done. They are both back in the place they should never have abandoned. Maybe they have just arrived in an even better place. He sits a little closer and wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her to him. She cuddles into his side, lets him hold her close. After a moment, she slides her hands across his back, around his torso; leans her head on his shoulder.

He must smell of booze. She does not seem to care.

She is not crying. Bill can feel it; he does not need to see her face. She is not crying, but she is going limp in his embrace. And the softer she turns, the tighter he holds her. He got Laura back. He will never let go.

_You're so afraid to live alone._

'I'll fight, Bill. I'll fight with everything I have. I'll stay with you.'

It is a whisper, her lips so close to his ear that he feels her breath brush his skin. It is her promise, her ultimate decision, and Bill and the universe and the Lords of Kobol know that this woman's decisions are to be taken seriously.

_And you're afraid that your death will be as meaningless as anyone else's._

'And I'll always be here. Always.'

You are not anyone to me. To me, you are everything.

It is, also, his apology.

Slowly, Bill shifts his weight and sits next to her, leaning backwards on the bulkhead. Laura crawls into his lap, between his legs. His arm around her waist, he pulls her closer. She does not resist: she folds her legs under her and leans into his chest with a sigh. He picks up the blanket and wraps her in it. Their linked hands rest on his lap. Bill kisses her hair and stays still, letting Laura's warmth wash over him. Their breathings find the same rhythm. There is not past, no future. Just a new feeling: peace. This is peace and Bill would kill to make it last forever, to keep Laura by his side, always, like she is now. To keep death away from her just having her wrapped in his arms.

If he thinks about it, they have spoken such few words.

But they have been speaking to each other since the beginning of time.

**Thank you for reading!**


End file.
